


Guilty Boys Go to Jail

by rasputinberries



Category: Glanni Glæpur í Latabæ, LazyTown, The Spy Next Door (2010)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Bisexual Male Character, Chaptered, Crimes & Criminals, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Eventual Romance, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury, M/M, Minor Injuries, Not Too Explicit Though, Past Abuse, Past Poldark/Tatiana, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Prison, Prison Sex, Smoking, Trans Glanni, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Work In Progress, briefly mentioned, eventually, potentially triggering content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 07:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10381620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasputinberries/pseuds/rasputinberries
Summary: When one of Russia's top criminals gets transferred to a prison in Iceland, he finds what he didn't know he needed in fellow prisoner and cellmate Glanni Glæpur.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my fellow LT fans on Tumblr and TogetherTube for inspiring me to finally carry this out!

So. This was the latest transfer to the prison. Glanni Glæpur had heard about him, through gossip in the cafeteria, those rare times when he was able to glean some human interaction from his otherwise lonely existence. A Russian. He'd heard a variety of rumors. Some had said he was a millionaire of some sort, that he'd earned a fortune through criminal activity. But they all knew he was important. Hence, they'd probably decided Iceland was distant and remote enough to ensure this Russian prisoner would have no connections. The prison in which Glanni had been confined for the next 10 years was small, as were all Icelandic prisons, but heavily guarded, designated for the worst criminals, such as himself.

And here he was. Standing in front of Glanni and the two-dozen other convicts in Iceland's toughest prison, handcuffed, with a guard close behind him. 

"So this is the great Anton Poldark, huh?" came the mutters from the crowd.

The dark-haired thief peered at the newly-transferred man. His first impression was that he was short. Like, really short. He couldn't have been more than 175 centimeters, much less than Glanni's height. Weren't Russians supposed to be tall? He had a dour expression knit on his face and didn't make eye contact with any of the men that stood before him. Glanni couldn't get a good look at his eyes, turned downward toward the floor. He did, despite his hardened expression, have a somewhat youthful look to him, though the criminal suspected that the other man was older than him by a few years. Golden hair, surprisingly clean-shaven. Or maybe (like Glæpur) he just couldn't grow a beard. The uniform, black shirt and pants, were baggy on his frame, though, the muscles on his lower arm were visible.

Glanni kept the basics in his mind, then shifted his focus to the words of the guard and the whispers that surrounded him. He would certainly keep an eye on this new prisoner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two criminals meet, and Glanni gets a surprise.

This was not like the American prison at which Anton had served his previous six months. No, it was much more isolated. The Russian had never once set foot in Iceland before, yet, quietly, without revealing much to the public or the prisoner himself- except that he was being transferred somewhere out of country- the CIA had him relocated.

He'd heard the purpose of locking him up- to isolate him from society until rehabilitation and eventual release. But by that time, he'd be in his late 50s. 40 now, with no hope of release for another 15 years- maybe more. No living relatives to pay his bail, not since his father had died in a car crash 12 years ago and his mother had died just 5 years earlier. Furthermore, all of his accomplices had been jailed, too, and he had no knowledge of their whereabouts.

It was his third day at this prison and he'd already become accustomed to eating his lunch alone in silence. That's when he was joined by someone. Tall, lanky, pale, with dark hair cropped close to his scalp.

"Is it okay if I sit here?"

"Who the hell are you and what do you want from me?" came Anton's brusque reply.

Not shaken by the cold tone, the other man set down his tray. "If you've heard of the rogue Glanni Glæpur- that's exactly who I am."

"Nyet. Never heard of him. Does it matter?"

Glanni sat down across from Anton without answering his other questions. "Relax, pretty boy. Do you want me to sit here or not?"

_Pretty boy._ Ridiculous. If anyone was a pretty boy, it was the dark-haired man. "My name is Poldark- Anton Poldark, and you will address me as such." He sighed and took a swig of his uncomfortably lukewarm water. "Go ahead. Stay."- both a challenge and a command.

They both ate in silence for a while- grilled chicken, beans, a slice of bread. "Is the food always this shitty?" the Russian asked.

"I wish I could tell you otherwise, but usually, yes."

Interrogating Glæpur seemed like his best bet. "How long have you been here?"

"Ten months. Ten years to go- well, 9 years plus 2 months." Glanni cut into his chicken, tough and chewy. "How long are you stuck here?"

"15 years, if they don't move me around again. You see, they had me in California before. American prisons are different."

"So they picked Iceland of all places? Hm."

He shrugged. "Yeah, but I don't know why. I don't have any family to get me out."

"Ah. Me neither. Just a brother... My parents cut me off."

"Mine are dead," he answered matter-of-factly, but decided to shift gears before it got too personal. "What are you in for?"

"Stealing the president's car, identity theft, and poisoning an entire town." Glanni would've boasted about this, but now he felt some remorse.

"What town?"

"Latabae. Small village here in Iceland. What about you... if you don't mind me asking?"

"Trying to steal the world's oil supply, among other things," Poldark answered.

Glanni didn't ask further questions. He decided to go out on a limb and make an offer to the newest prisoner. "I was kind of in and out of here for a while. I know the ways around... but I don't have much company. Since you're new... I thought I could guide you around a bit?"

Anton raised a single eyebrow. "Fine. I'll take you up on that." He corrected himself. "But this doesn't mean we're friends, okay?"

"Sure... pretty boy."

-

A week later, Glanni was called aside by one of the warden's assistants, a gruff man whom he knew looked down on him.

"Now listen up, Glæpur. You may have noticed how as of this morning, your old cellmate, Jóhann, isn't here any more. Got transferred. But we can't let any of you criminals get too comfortable." His voice was clearly full of scorn, especially at the word _criminals_. "So we're moving that new guy to your cell."

"The Russian?" Glanni asked. He wasn't sure how to react. He'd talked to Poldark maybe three times before in the cafeteria, when the blond hadn't pushed him away. His previous cellmate, Jóhann, hadn't been a friend, but he was tolerable. Glanni supposed he'd have to take this new prisoner under his wing- which seemed inconvenient given that Glanni wasn't well-liked among the other prisoners.

"Obviously yes- the Russian, Anton Poldark."

The name- though he'd heard it before- seemed more fitting of a millionaire business tycoon or a sultry actor than an internationally wanted criminal. But the man **was** attractive, so perhaps it fit him.

"Consider yourself lucky, Glæpur."

_Lucky? In this hellhole? Impossible,_ the Icelandic thief thought to himself, but lacked the impudence to say out loud, especially to this man who could easily beat him up. There was no changing his mind. Glanni would have to be stuck with the Russian and hope things didn't end up too bad.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton and Glanni spend their first night as cellmates together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly filler and pretty short, but I hope that's okay!

It was Anton Poldark's first night sharing a cell with Glanni Glæpur, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of the thief yet. What was important now was that the room wasn't nearly big enough, maybe about the size of a college dorm. But this was jail, and he knew he wasn't supposed to be comfortable. His cot was small, the mattress squeaky if he shifted around at all. A dim lamp lit the pages of his novel. _Crime and Punishment._ How fitting. He couldn't speak or read Icelandic, so he was lucky enough to obtain an English copy, And that's when Glanni sat on the edge of his bed.

"Go away," he muttered in his native tongue.

"What's that? I'm sorry, I don't speak Russian," Glanni answered with an air of smugness. _God, what an asshole._

"Go away-" he replied, this time in English.

"Come on, Poldark, you don't mean that, do you?"

He stopped. What had he meant? "I just wanted to be alone," he admitted. "But now I'm lonely. Whatever. It's better that way." Admitting loneliness made Anton cringe with regret. No. Don't let him see any weakness. Remember who you are. Most feared criminal of Russia. Make him fear you. "What's it to you?"

Glanni shifted a few inches away from Anton so as not to set him off. It was like sharing a bedroom with a landmine. "What are you reading?"

"Can't you read?" he answered bluntly, waving the book in his face. "Dostoevsky. Are you familiar?"

"Not really." Glanni thought back to his school years. He had enjoyed literature, though not particularly excelled at it, and had initially had plans to study at university in Reykjavik. However, that was never to be. Things had certainly changed and he'd had to make other plans, plans that involved a life of crime. And now, by age 32, he knew that he was too far gone. None of this he desired Anton to know. "I didn't really mean to interrupt or anything."

"Tell you what, it's not like I'm doing anything important now anyway. And likely won't be for the next 15 years." He set his book aside and focused, instead, on the man before him. Glanni's features were dimly lit, but the first think Anton noted in that light were his eyes. He'd never paid much attention to them. A pale grey with just a tinge of blue, like the Moscow sky when the sun just barely peeked behind the clouds. "I guess you won't be doing anything either."

Glanni noticed that the Russian was looking at him, as if trying to make a mental note of his face. Those clever, ice-cold eyes probably examined everyone like that. You probably had to look at people like that to succeed in espionage. He remembered how he'd logged Anton in his memory the very first time that he saw him. "No. Just living out the prime years of my life in jail." He didn't seem floored by it, having spent enough time behind bars that it was one of the few constants in his life.

The two prisoners were relatively still and silent for a few moments. Anton continued trying to read, Glanni still sitting at the foot of his bed, eyes drifting between the older of the two and the concrete wall. He wondered why the other bothered staying there and not sitting on his own goddamn bed. Was he hoping for a conversation? Couldn't he sleep or something else? Finally, he spoke up. "What are the other inmates like?"

"A bunch of awful, selfish, brutish bastards," Glanni answered, barely skipping a beat. "Just like anyone who ends up in prison. You and me included."

Poldark thought of leaping to his own defense. Not everyone was like that, right? And Glæpur- though he was a pompous douchebag- was he? Rather than preserving his ego, he took the hit. "Yeah. I guess that's how we are. Guilty men."

"You know what... Pol _dork_?"

He audibly groaned, frustration apparent. "Don't call me that."

"Fine," answered Glanni, only partially intending to follow through on his promise. "But you know...? I think that maybe we have more in common than we think."

The very corner of Anton's lip tilted upward, in what could just possibly be counted as a smile. "Don't bet on it, Glæpur."

"Whatever. Now I suppose we should get some sleep. Breakfast is really early tomorrow."

"You're right. But you're going to have to get off my bed first."

Glanni did as he was told, and before either of the men knew what the other was doing, they were each able to claim the luxury of sleep for several hours in the still, dark cell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton and Glanni talk about fashion, and later, the Russian finds himself in a vulnerable situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a post on tumblr about Glanni and Anton arguing about fashion and I knew I had to include it in my fic!
> 
> Also I totally had to rewatch Magnus' audition tape to get a reference on Poldark's tattoos...
> 
> I know Magnus and Stefan's actual age gap is like 11 years, but I decided to give Glanni and Anton an 8-year gap. I also know their ages in the fic differ from the ages at which they played these roles.
> 
> Мальчик (Mal'chik) = Boy  
> да (da) = yes

The solid black-on-black uniform hung on Glanni's thin frame, just as it had for the past nine months. His favorite color, but certainly not the right fit. Were he not in prison, he wouldn't want to be caught dead in it. He missed the tight leather he had usually worn, showing off his body, or the rich furs he'd been able to obtain through his criminal lifestyle. Now there was just this plain uniform every day.

"What should I wear today, Poldark?" he asked jokingly after his cellmate had entered fresh from his shower, chest bare, wearing only the loose black pants.

"What do you mean- we wear the same every day," he answered.

Glanni shrugged. "You're sick of this shit, too?"

"Is that even a question?" He sat on his bed, the top half of his prison uniform placed neatly next to him. "I wish there were, you know... options. Something more fashionable."

The dark-haired man stifled a cocky grin. "Wow, wow... tough Russian man is interested in _fashion_? I knew there was something about you, you pretty boy." As usual, he said those words with an air of playfulness. "What are you thinking of? I mean, what did you wear before?"

He groaned, stretching, further exposing his upper body. Glanni found himself entranced by his tattoos, a large black cross on his abdomen, and some smaller symbols, some of which looked like Russian letters, on his biceps and near his shoulder blades.

"Black suits... ties... businessman wear. Occasionally sportswear. But usually more high-end. I could afford it."

"Business casual? Semi-formal?" He tossed his head back. "Oh, Poldark, that so... commonplace. Ordinary."

"You want to see my suit collection, Glæpur? It's probably worth more than your entire life," he shot back. "And what do you normally wear?"

He sighed at the memory of finer fashion. "Leather. Lots of black. Tight-fitting stuff. And sometimes, brighter colors, or furs."

"Hm. I'd like to see you in a fur coat," Anton suggested, the image amusing him: this lanky, long-limbed man draped in an oversized pelt. "Come to Russia and you'd fit right in."

"If I ever get out of here," he answered flatly.

The other man bit his lip. "You'll get out. How old are you? Thirty?"

"Thirty-two," he answered. Not quite as old as his cellmate, but he still felt the fear of age approaching.

"Be glad you're not forty." Anton but the black shirt on, still visibly bored by the garment.

Glanni recalled the sculpted muscles of his cellmate's arms, his defined abdomen, with just a slight curve of his hips. "Hey, I wish I looked like that at forty," he replied in a lighthearted tone, though he meant every word he said. Oh God, he hoped that comment didn't sound like a come-on. This man had the potential to hurt him. How would Poldark react if he thought Glanni was- _heaven forbid_ \- attracted to him? Not that he _was_ \- the thief told himself. At least not like that.

Fortunately, he didn't seem to think much of it. "Oh, shut up, Glæpur,"- followed by another one of those looks that could perhaps be considered a smile.

It was a start.

 

-

 

The man in the mirror didn't look at all familiar to Anton. He held the cloth to his bleeding lip and nose. Though he was no stranger to injury and even fractured limbs, he had seldom felt as ashamed as he did now.

"Finally learned that the inmates here are assholes, huh?" Glanni's reflection appeared next to his own in the mirror.

"Enough with the superiority complex, Мальчик. You're not much better than the rest of them," he answered through gritted teeth.

Glanni didn't question the Russian word he'd been called. For all he knew, it could've been a curse word or a slur- it was just water off of his back. Not important. "I'm not the one who beat the shit out of you." His form was gone from the mirror as he rummaged through a drawer and found a small first-aid kit that he kept for the times of need. "I'm the one offering to patch you up."

Anton turned around and sat down on his cot. "Patch me up? What am I, a doll?" He traced a bruise on his forearm, which sent a dull ache as he pressed too hard against the mark. "You don't have to. I can handle myself. I'm a grown man."

"You sure? Your face is pretty roughed up. It could be bad."

"Fine. Go ahead," he answered, reluctant.

The younger man dipped a gauze pad in the rubbing alcohol. "This will make sure it doesn't get infected. But it will hurt for a few seconds." He cupped the shorter man's chin, and oddly enough, Poldark didn't flinch or brush him off. The blood had already started to cake around his nostrils and the area under his nose, and Glæpur started to wipe the area to clean it.

"Ow! Shit!" Anton winced in pain at the sensation.

Glanni looked more serious than usual- none of his condescending or smug looks. "I told you it would sting. You're acting like a child. Stay still."

"Fine... Doctor Glæpur." The name sounded so ridiculous with the title, he thought.

"You're lucky I'm not a dentist," the thief replied, as if a dose of humor would heal the pain. Carefully he cleaned the area around the nose and upper lip, then, once the Russian finally held still enough, the wound on his lower lip. He found himself looking at his lips longer than made him comfortable. _No. This was stupid._ There was nothing special about his lips. Nothing stood out except the injury.

"Why'd you do this? I never did anything nice for you," wondered Anton.

Glanni put away the supplies. "Because I know what it's like," he answered. "To get beat up like this. And don't think of it as me being nice. Nice is a dumb word. I'm not a nice person."

"No one in jail is, right?"

"Right. We all suck." Still shuffling through his drawer, he found a carton of cigarettes and his beat-up lighter. "You smoke, Poldark?"

"Occasionally," he responded. "But I don't think I am in a fit condition to have a smoke right now." He held the cloth to his lip as if to make a point to his cellmate.

"Mind if I?" He flicked on his lighter, cigarette between glossy teeth.

"Not at all." He watched Glanni go through the motions, a shroud of smoke surrounding his face, making him look like some otherworldly creature. A fairy, perhaps.

The Icelander exhaled a particularly long breath. "Hey, why'd they hurt you anyway? What did you do?"

"You think this is my fault, huh? Is that it?" he retaliated, leaping to his own defense.

"No- I mean, did you set them off or anything."

"They were mocking me. Disrespectful shits. No one insults Anton Poldark and gets away with it," he explained. "So I fought back. Words first, then fists. Well- I tried to fight. One of guards had to break it up. Other guy probably has a black eye or something."

Glanni took another drag of his cigarette. "Punk ass deserved it." Though the man hadn't been described, the thief was almost certain that it was one of a few men who had done the same to him. "Just... don't let them get you down, Poldark, okay?"

"It's kinda tough, but you know, I'll try." Easier said than done, especially for the short-tempered man he was. "You know, we've been cellmates for over two weeks now. So you can use my first name now. Start calling me Anton."

It felt personal. He usually went by his last name, more often accompanied with a title than his given name. Only some used his birth name or a variation of it, a more personal nickname for only the most intimate of acquaintances. And here he was, letting Glanni throw it around.

"Anton." He let the name roll off his tongue, even trying to imitate the thick Russian accent and letting his pitch rise to match the tone of Poldark's voice. A voice that had surprised him when he'd first heard it, one he didn't think matched its owner, but one to which he'd grown accustomed. He cleared his throats to deepen his voice back to its normal state again. "Okay. And, uh... while we're at this... you should know.... Glanni Glæpur's not my real name. Well, it is, legally, but, it's not what I was born with." He kept it at that for now. Revealing too much could still be hazardous, and he wasn't sure that his cellmate was at a level to confide in yet. "Not that it's really important."

"But you still want me to call you that, да?"

Glanni nodded. "Please do... Anton."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An encounter forces Glanni to open up to Anton more than he previously considered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little heavier than the others so far. Just saying. Most of the warnings are in the work tags.

Shame. It was the worst feeling, and Glanni knew that well. It followed him into the showers each time. There was a reason he avoided them, a reason he always scheduled them at times he knew they'd most likely be empty.

Glanni wasn't religious at all, but he remembered hearing about Adam and Eve in the story. They'd felt ashamed of their naked bodies. But the criminal felt that he had it much worse.

He shouldn't have let it bother him. Towel wrapped securely around his chest and waist, he stepped into the shower, then stripped and let the water run. Finally, he was alone with his thoughts, which verged on the mundane, but occasionally, something involving Anton would pop up, uninvited but not entirely unwelcome.

It'd been five days since the Russian had gotten into the scuffle with other prisoners, and his injuries had since healed. To Glanni's awareness, he hadn't been in any other fights. Even if he was nearly a decade younger, he felt that he had a responsibility to make sure that his cellmate didn't get into too much trouble. He felt that he'd been entrusted with him, and he didn't want Anton's time in the prison to be miserable- or, any more miserable than his own.

The same could hardly be said about Glanni. He looked over a new bruise on his hip from just yesterday, still uncomfortably tender to the touch. Whatever. He wanted to believe he was strong. This wasn't a big deal.

"Glanni fucking Glæpur."

He turned around, at first relieved it wasn't Poldark. But the instant that he recognized the man, his face fell, twisting into a cold scowl. _Don't let him see a single trace of fear. You're better than that. Better than this piece of shit._

"Hey,, don't act innocent. I see you hanging around that Russian. Your little friend," he spat.

"He's not my friend, you ugly bastard," he answered, face hard as a steel mask. He let the water trickle down his exposed body. It was too late to hide it at this point.

"Oh, I'm sorry. What is he, then? Your lover?" He laughed in a discordant tone. "Fuck buddy? I knew he was a fairy just like you. You've probably already let him fuck you, just like you spread your legs for anyone, you slut."

The words sparked an anger in Glanni. "Bullshit. That's not true and you know it. I don't even like him. I just have to tolerate him like I have to tolerate the rest of you bitches in this hellhole."

"Yeah. Whatever you say, Glæpur." The other man's hand struck his cheek, and before Glanni knew it, he was kneeling on the wet tile floor. "Does he know about your secret yet? Hm?"

His secret. Glanni had become so accustomed to masquerading it that he'd almost forgotten that it was a secret. "What's it to you?"

"You better say something soon- or else someone else will," he warned. "I'll tell Poldark and he'll have no respect for you anymore. If he even had any in the first place."

The thief stood back on his feet, but was pushed to the wall. "Shut the hell up," he snapped, voice a low growl.

"Whatever. But don't think I'll let you off the hook."

-

It was nearly two in the morning and Anton lay awake, All the lights were off, and he was sure Glanni was asleep by now, but the peace that was sleep evaded him. Truth was, he was lonely. _What was this?_ He wasn't supposed to feel like this. 

But as he was lonely, his thought were far off,, and he began to miss his assistant, Tatiana. She'd been sent to some women's prison in America. His confidante, his lover. Oh, how he remembered her. Just the very idea of her stirred something in him that he didn't know he was capable of. An emotion that he didn't want to admit to feeling.

Her. Her steely grey eyes, red-painted lips, body, arms... How she stood just a few inches above him, especially in heels, her commanding presence. Her perfume on his lapel, hands on his waist. How some nights, after a successful mission, perhaps, they'd make love and it felt **real**.

"Antosha..."

He wondered if he would ever see her- _his Tatiana_ again. What was the use? She wasn't his anymore. And he'd never experience that same feeling for anyone again. Whatever it was, it never worked out, not in his divorced parents while they were alive, not in himself.

He was shaken from his reverie when he heard quiet sniffles from the other side of the cell.

"Glæpur? Are you awake?" He turned on his lamp and the dim light showcased a crying Glanni.

The other man's voice was weak but hoarse. "Yeah. But just... you didn't see or hear anything, okay?"

"What's wrong?"

"Listen. You know prison is tough and all. Leaves you with scars you can't really forget, and all that stuff." He wiped his face to hide any shreds of tears or anything that would distinguish him as fragile.

"What happened to you? Anything?"

"Why do you want to know? I thought we weren't friends," he replied.

"Are we?" Anton didn't seek an answer. He doubted Glanni knew.

The Icelandic man's frame turned to face his cellmate. "Fine. Fine... I got harassed in the showers today, Anton..." He didn't know how to tell his secret, but the threat from the man in the shower prompted him to act. He'd have to know sooner or later. "I'm trans. Transgender. That's why they threaten me in the showers. Why I don't have friends."

"Wait- you are?" It wasn't full-on shock or bewilderment, but Anton still had many questions. Perhaps they were best left unanswered. "All this time? You didn't tell me sooner?"

"You're not obliged to know, anyway. But I'm telling you anyway."

"But why?"

"Because it's terrifying, Anton. It's the reason- well, one of them- why I get into fights so often. That I've been assaulted- physically and sexually- multiple times." He felt that maybe he was dumping too much information on the Russian, but there was no turning back now. "I was abused several years ago. My first time in prison. After that, I swore I'd grow hard, never let my guard down. Never let it happen again. Be a real man. Toughen up. Then they wouldn't hurt me. But they did."

"They did that to you? Those bastards-"

Glanni nodded, biting his lip. "There's a lot you're probably wondering... I... I've known since I was a teenager... and when I finally told my parents, they rejected me. That's why I cut myself off from them. I hate my entire goddamn family-"

"You were probably right in doing so-"

"And that's why I turned to crime," he answered. "To be tough, to be a man."

The silence hung in the air, neither man knowing what to say next.

"At least they put you in a man's prison and didn't fuck that up," noted Anton.

"Yeah." Glanni took off the white tank top that he slept in, revealing the two lines running underneath his nipples. "I've been on testosterone for many years, and I got top surgery."

Anton observed the scars with part interest, part admiration. He knew that one of his previous accomplices, Sergei, a member of the Russian Mafia, was a transman, but he hadn't had a real discussion about it or seen the marks from the surgery. "Mhmm."

"It doesn't bother you? You don't think I'm some sort of freak, huh? Not going to go apeshit, right?"

"No no, not at all. It's okay that you are trans."

He twisted his lip, relieved, if not proven wrong. "Hm. I thought they were really transphobic in Russia."

Anton sighed. "Lots of people are. And homophobic, too." He didn't go into detail, but figured Glanni had heard enough. "I... this is gonna sound stupid, but now I feel obliged to reveal some dark truth about myself. Whatever. I'm sorry."

"Because I'm trans? You pity me? The last thing I need is your pity, Anton." 

He took a heavy sigh. He hadn't thought himself very capable of feeling sympathy, let alone pity, before. "It's not that. It's just. Making me think. About my life."

"What?"

Maybe this was a discussion for another day. Poldark wasn't entirely sure how to put words to his feelings yet. "It's my life, Glanni. I have to worry about it, not you," he said, a yawn following the words. "The reason I'm even up at 2 in the morning in the first place."

"Well, I hope you can find some rest."

"You too. Are you feeling better?"

This couldn't be real. The coldhearted Russian was checking in with his feelings. And he was actually touched. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Now let's try to sleep and save the heavy conversations for the future."


End file.
